


when i think about you i touch myself

by peradi



Category: Cable and Deadpool, Deadpool (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural
Genre: Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Crack, Crack Pairing, Dry Humping, Fight Sex, Leaning on the Fourth Wall, M/M, Nonsense, two violent boys in love, violence is a turn on, violence is sexy, wade wilson is the best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:04:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peradi/pseuds/peradi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You are an ugly son-of-a-bitch. You look like someone who drowned in a puddle of his own piss, then got face-fucked by the archdemon of syphilis."</p><p>"Thank you. I think of you when I touch myself at night."</p><p>--</p><p>Dean Winchester and Deadpool: the love story no one wanted or asked for</p>
            </blockquote>





	when i think about you i touch myself

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is an abomination. it's the result of being so hype about deadpool that it's almost unhealthy and being endlessly dismayed at how shite supernatural seems to have got in later seasons. (how many times can the brothers cause problems by NOT FUCKING TALKING???)
> 
> anyway. this is a bastardisation of both canons, and takes place in no timeframe that makes sense to anyone. think of dean as being partway through season six? maybe? sam has a soul, angels are still in heaven, lucifer is in the cage and the leviathans do not exist. neither does metatron cos fuck him.

"I fucked Death," says Deadpool, sloppy drunk and grinning. Dean's brain blurs with static in attempt to ward off that particular mental image. 

"He's a seventy-something man."

"With a mouth like a  _hoover_ ," purrs Wade, and that's it -- Dean's too sober for this shit. 

 

\--

 

Of course, it didn't start there.

It did start with alcohol, as most problems in Dean's life do (alcohol: cause and solution to everything wrong.)

 

\--

 

He's drunk off his ass. 

He's often drunk off his ass -- hello, daddy-issues plus genetic predisposition towards alcoholism plus lingering and untreated PTSD -- but this is different, because someone is trying to kill him. 

Some _thing_.

It's a vampire. He thinks. To be honest, he's seeing double -- possibly triple -- and he's fighting on instinct more than anything else, and it says a lot about Dean's fighting prowess that's he isn't dead. 

Yet. 

He breaks the vamp's nose with a solid, organic crunch. Blood looks like tar in the moonlight. And, better still, it makes the fucker flail back, and that means that Dean can draw his knife and --

Watch, as the vamp is cut in two. 

 _Huh_.

 

\--

 

"That was amazing. Seriously amazing. We -- I -- were watching and I sort of wanted to interfere, but the boxes pointed out that this is the sort of story where you do your own thing but then you broke his nose and  _uh_. I almost came. Well. Did. A little. But not actually. I will, later, 'cos  _holy shitballs that thing is still moving --_ " and the man, who is some kind of nutcase dressed in blood red and black, jumps back, waving his sword 

(katana)

in a frenzied swirly loop and Dean takes a moment to watch it, thinking  _holy fucking shit that dude is good_ because the motion's the sort of shit that pros do to show off, not the sort of shit that novices do to look clever. 

It takes three slashes of his knife to separate head from still-twitching body. His hands are tacky with vamp-blood when he's done, and his skin is thrumming with the electric aftermath of a really good fight. 

"The boxes say you're a hero," says the madman in a gimp mask. "They also say you like booze. Wanna grab a drink?"

 

\--

 

Dean's  _Dean Winchester_.

He grabs the man by the throat, shoves him back, knife to the juncture of jaw and jugular, teeth spiking around the question: "Who d'fuck are you?" and his voice is a drawling slur of whisky and adrenalin, and the man  _coos_.

"I really am attracted to you. Name's -- hang on," and he pops out one hip, hooks his knee high, and does some strange twisting kick-thing -- next thing Dean knows he's on his back, a sword across his neck. "Better! I'm more a top. That gonna be a problem?"

"Fuck you."

"Ah, thought so. Hey, bottom boy -- you like killing things, I like killing things -- how about we kill things together, then have loud obnoxious sex?"

"m'not gay," Dean says, it's all he can think to say, because he's on his back in an alley that reeks of piss, with some guy straddling him and a fucking sword laid on his chest. "Get off."

"I will! Thank you. Appreciate it. I'm Deadpool! Look me up!" With that he jumps up and scurries -- yes, he scurries -- out of reach. And then he's gone, fading into the dark like an LSD trip. 

Or something. 

 

\--

 

Dean wakes up the next morning.

That is not a good thing. 

His brain has fermented and drizzled down the back of his throat and his teeth have been replaced with corkscrews that are boring into his jawbone and his tongue has liquified and everything is pain and rot. 

"I got skullfucked by an angel last night," he says. 

Well. 

He tries to speak. 

It doesn't work. 

Sam dumps a mug of coffee in front of him. "Drink."

Dean makes a low, incoherent burble and obeys. 

 

\--

 

He's in New York when he next sees the masochist in budget S and M gear (not that Dean knows what that looks like. Uh.)

Anyway, he's in New York and he's got one witch in a headlock and another on his back pulling at his hair and it's a full on bitch fight. Sam's dealing with the other half of the coven, and Dean's a fucking whirligig. 

"Ooh, this looks fun," someone sings out. "Hey, hey, save one for me."

And, just like that, the weight is gone from his back. Blood runs hot and thin down his temples (Christ, that bitch had sharp nails) and tangles up in his eyebrows, and he plunges forward, bearing the witch to the ground. Her eyes flare orange, and she plunges one hand into her pocket but Dean crunches her knuckles against the concrete, breaks them into useless little shards, and she utters this high unearthly wail. 

"Please--" she says, and her face loses all savagery, smooths into helpless little lines, her mouth a soft hurt shape and all Dean can think of is the child, that little girl, the coven's latest victim: bound up in the dark, cut open and bled white. "Please, let me --"

"Her name was Rhianna, you fucking whore," he says, and he slits her throat in a quick, clean motion. 

Someone starts applauding him. "Oh well done.  _Well done_. I'm loving the righteous vengeance. I'm loving it. You've got this...grrr, I'm Liam Neeson, you've got my daughter, prepare to die vibe going on. I like you. I  _like_ you. And the boxes -- not the white ones, the yellow ones -- are saying that your ass looks amazeballs in those jeans. Who was Rhianna?"

"The five year old girl they killed," Dean says, flatly, turning around to see the madman in black and red -- what was it he called himself? -- Deadpool, that was it. He's got the other witch under one arm, her neck clamped against his forearm, her legs flailing and her face purpling. 

At that Deadpool's eyes darken -- well, not exactly, because he's got white insectoid eye-slits but somehow he gives the impression of darkening, the  _aura_ of anger, charged and shuddering around him, sparking fury and bloodlust and the air tastes of iron.

He twists the witch's head. Her neck snaps with a wet, organic crunch. 

The charge dissipates. Deadpool whistles a snatch of 'Singing in the Rain' and pulls a bottle of vodka from the recesses of his suit. 

"Where were you keeping that?"

"You don't wanna know. Want a drink?"

"I don't normally make a habit of getting drunk with random strangers."

"I'm not a stranger!" Deadpool whines. "We killed things together! That's basically second base!"

 

\--

 

Dad taught him never to turn his back on a potential threat. 

That is the reason -- and the  _only reason_ \-- why Dean follows Deadpool into what has to be the world's worst bar. 

Seriously. 

The bartender is six foot nine of angry black man. "The fuck do you want?" he says to Deadpool. 

"Cagey boy! Long time no see --"

"You keep killing my clients, you massive  _shitstain_."

"Hey, great, yeah -- I'll have a Cosmo and my friend here'll have, uh -- what do you want?"

"Beer," says Dean. 

There's beer. There's more beer. There's karaoke.

"Go on," coos Deadpool. He's got one arm slung over Dean's shoulder. He smells of blood and cordite and paint-stripper, and his skin is fever-warm. "Sing for me. Sing us a  _song_."

"Then you're paying for the next round," says Dean. 

"Sure, sure," says Deadpool, swiping a twenty from Dean's jacket pocket and waving it in the air. "Barkeep! Bit more of your finest, cheapest booze please! Make mine red! And hetrosexual! Did I mention I am?"

"m'bi," says Dean, still staring at the stage. It's moving. Swimming. Lights dancing over it: blue and green and pink. 

"Even  _better_."

 

\--

 

Dean's drunk enough to try and belt out 'My Heart Will Go On' and people boo and jeer and Deadpool shoots some bastard for lobbing a bottle at Dean, and they have to escape through a window in the toilet while Cage breaks down the door, his fists splintering the wood, and Deadpool's laughing and Dean's laughing and he shouldn't be, there's blood on the floor and a dead guy somewhere, and all he can think is that this is it, this is the life, and so when Deadpool spins him around and kisses him hard on the mouth he reciprocates. 

Tries to, at least. The mask makes things hard: he ends up slobbering on the fabric. 

Dean hooks his thumbs under Deadpool's mask, tugs it up. The other man flinches back, just a little. His mouth is scarred. Burgundy ridges around his lips, and blood simmers in the crevices. His skin, where it isn't the colour of liver, is milky pale. 

"Huh."

Dean's on a rooftop in New York. Below him is a riot, and around him is the electric song of a city that never sleeps. The sky is ruddy with light pollution and winter's bite is in the air, keen as the teeth of a wolf. 

"Hey -- "

Dean kisses him hard enough to knock them both over. 

 

\--

 

Deadpool, as predicted, ends up on top. 

However he comes first, spunking in his costume like a kinky teenager at a convention, and yeah Dean follows him embarrassingly fast, Deadpool's hand around his throat and Deadpool's teeth in his ear. 

 

\--

 

"Who's Deadpool?" Dean asks of Sam, when they're back in the motel room. Witch's blood on his hands, the taste of ash in his mouth, Deadpool lingering on him: sweat congealed and the smell of iron everywhere. He wants. He  _wants_ and he's drunk off his arse, still, and his cock is a limp bedraggled thing that's a little bruised from hands suited to katanas and combat, not handjobs, and it wasn't the best sex he's ever had -- hell, wasn't even sex -- but he's still alive with hunger, shivering with adrenaline and yes, Dean Winchester  _wants_.

 "Uh. No idea. Why?"

Dean tells him pretty much everything.

(Pretty much. He has some dignity.)

(Well. A little.)

Googling unearths a string of references, urban legends and conspiracy sites that the generous hearted might call 'kooky.'

(Dean's not generous hearted. He calls them 'batshit mental.')

Well. The Merc with a Mouth. Pool of Death. Madman, murderer and quite possibly the deadliest individual to don a gimp mask for the sake of crimefighting. 

(That's not hard. Most crimefighters in costume babble about  _mandroids_ and  _jet fuel can't melt steel beams_ and real monster gobble them up for breakfast.)

"We'll keep an eye out for him," Sam says. "Could be dangerous."

"Hm," Dean says, licking his lips. "Probably won't show up again."

 

\--

 

Dean's wrong. 

Very wrong. 

But he's  _glad to be wrong._

 

_\--_

 

 

Two months later, and Dean's pretty sure that Deadpool is stalking him. Every single time he gets into a fight and Sam isn't there Deadpool materialises from the shadows -- doesn't matter if he's in an alleyway in Boston or a cornfield in Idaho, there Deadpool will be, slinking red and black from the dark like a great jungle cat. No: like the Cheshire cat, grinning and mad and inexplicable. 

Deadpool kills the thing that's trying to kill Dean -- or, occasionally, watches as Dean kills it, whooping encouragement like the world's most terrifying cheerleader. 

And afterwards, they make out, and rut against each other until they come. 

It's so teenage Dean could cry: hands and mouths and friction, heat tight in his stomach, unspooling in a lightning-curl when Deadpool strokes the right place, bites at the right moment. 

Deadpool never takes his costume off. He pulls the mask up enough to kiss but that's it: he has Dean bring him off  _through_ the fabric, which is dirty and nasty and awkward and probably the hottest thing  _ever --_ Deadpool coming undone as Dean licks and sucks at the outline of his cock, taste of iron and salt, a little like bullets, like the smell of bullets and battle. 

One time, in Ohio, Deadpool bends Dean over the Impala and fucks into his ass with fingers slick with blood and saliva, a hot dry burn climbing up Dean's spine, and it hurts so prettily, firework climb of pleasure and plain along every nerve he has. 

He comes from the hard, ugly pressure of Deadpool's fingers inside him without anyone ever touching his cock. 

It's absurd. His forehead clatters into the car's bonnet. 

"Sorry Baby," he breathes. "I didn't want you to see me like that."

"Oh, she's a naughty little thing. She loves to watch, doesn't she?" Deadpool wriggles his fingers a bit, prompting a high girly sound which Dean will deny ever making. "Yes, I think she likes to watch."

The sky is a high black flank, bites of stars, a galleon of a moon riding high on a froth of cloud. 

In the middle of nowhere. Getting fingerfucked by a man who's face he's never seen. A man who kills with joy in his throat and a song in his heart. 

Dean  _mewls_. 

"She's gonna watch me make you come. She's gonna love it, her Daddy coming from my fingers up his ass. Yeah, she likes it."

"You're fucking mental."

"I know," Deadpool chirrups, stamps a kiss to Dean's nape. "So are you."

 

\--

 

Inevitably:

"You are an ugly son-of-a-bitch. You look like someone who drowned in a puddle of his own piss, then got face-fucked by the archdemon of syphilis."

"Thank you. I think of you when I touch myself at night."

 "I'm glad that I bottom so I can't see your face; you look like a fruitbat's cunt. Fruitbat with herpes."

"I'm glad you bottom because you've got a tight ass and you take cock like a champ."

"You look like Sam when he's hungover."

"I might fuck him next then. Sounds like a handsome bastard."

" _Please shut up_ ," Sam whines.

 

\--

 

"I don't like your new boyfriend," says Sam. 

"He's not my boyfriend," says Dean. 

He's got Deadpool's hoodie on. It's an abomination of a garment, stiff with blood and other fluids, but it's the only thing immediately to hand in his flat. 

Which Dean has been sleeping in. 

Look, they were in town. It made sense to crash after the usual fightsex and chill. 

Deadpool's in the shower, singing loudly and offkey. 

" _YOU'RE MY CHERRY PIE --"_

 

\--

 

Dean's _no-one's_ cherry pie. 

 

\--

 

"Dean, is he ever going to leave?"

"Sure. At some point."

The bunker is for Team Free Will. 

Deadpool is a member of such. Makes sense for him to crash every now and then. 

Dean tells him this. Sam pulls a face like a cat trying to shit out a cactus. "He's been here for  _three months_. He uses my  _toothbrush_. You --"

"Hey, calm down gorgeous," says Deadpool -- Wade, as they now tend to call him -- slapping Sam's ass as he saunters by, a pink fluffy towel bundled up on his head. "I only put it in my mouth. C'mere precious," and he kisses Dean, kisses him with a lot of tongue and moaning, and Sam throws his hands in the air.

"I give up!"

 

\--

 

"I'm immortal."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I fucked Death. Thanos hated that so --"

"Who's Thanos?"

"Don't worry. Lucifer ate him up. But point is, I'm not going to die and I'm never going to leave you."

"I'm very drunk."

"So drunk that you can't even describe where we are. Maybe the writer's feeling lazy. Maybe they're being experimental with a dialogue-only vignette to show my feelings."

"What are you  _on_?"

"You. Mostly."

 

\--

 

A year later. Dean's seeing black, wavering stars as a vamp chokes him; Sam's rammed against a wall, bitten and bloody and still fighting, and it can't end like this, it can't end like this --

Deadpool pulls the vampire off Dean in one sinuous spill of movement, wrenches his head off with a wet crack. Gouts of blood smack him and Dean in the face, and through the streams of gore Deadpool's mouth finds his, hungry and demanding, and Sam's vamp lunges for Deadpool, only to slump in two wet halves as Castiel's angel blade sings. 

Wade pulls away. His smile is sharp as a knife in the dark. "Marry me. That's a nice end to a story, don't you think?"

"You're insane."

"Well  _yeah_. This whole thing is in your point of view because our writer can't fathom the inside of my head."

"You make no sense."

"Marry me, you bastard. I'll let you top once a month, you'll do the cooking, and I'll stop hitting on your brother."

"Sound fair to me."

 

\--

 

THE END


End file.
